


Hold Your Color

by duffmansean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Animal Death, Community: ohsam, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Post-Hell, helpless!Dean, season 6 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 16:21:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duffmansean/pseuds/duffmansean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for vail_kagami 's oh_sam  h/c challenge prompt: Sam gets his soul back after more than a year, but time in hell moves so much faster, and even more so in the cage. He's been there for centuries and he remembers it all. He's been Sam Winchester, hunter, brother of Dean, for 27 years. He's been the punching bag of two furious, self-righteous archangels for so, so much longer. By the time he gets out he knows the cage better than the world of the living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Your Color

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vailkagami](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vailkagami/gifts).



Dean wasn't sure what he had expected, really: screaming, biting, hitting, clawing, crying. His mind provided a wide range of emotions that might have come tumbling from his brother upon awakening, but for all that Dean had thought Sam might present with, this surely was not it.

 

Sam was silent. He opened his eyes but he did not speak, he didn't move. Save for blinking, Sam gave no indication of being aware that he was there in Bobby's panic room with the only family he had left.

 

Dean tried to stay quiet. He really did. Eventually, though, he couldn't take it anymore; he had to say something, even if it frightened Sam or caused him to snap completely. He had to make sure that Sam was really... “Sammy?”

 

With the softest flutter of lashes, Sam's eyes moved toward Dean's. There was a glimmer behind the hazel color that Dean hadn't realized was gone until that very moment; a sort of contemplative  _knowing_  that wasn't there before. He was confused, that much Dean could tell. A soft pout formed along Sam's brow as his eyes narrowed, shifting back and forth as they examined Dean's face.

 

“Sammy? It's me,” he said softly, taking hesitant steps toward the cot his brother was handcuffed to. “We got you out, man.” Could he say the H-word? He was almost afraid to; Sam was so calm and quiet that it left Dean thoroughly unsettled. The whole situation had left him feeling disoriented.

 

Though there was nothing vacant in Sam's expression, he still had yet to respond to what Dean said. Instead, he just stared, eyes wide and wary. As Dean grew closer, he noticed that there was a subtle shift in Sam's body.  _He's cringing,_ Dean realized. Molecule by molecule, Sam was cringing in response to the invasion to his space.

 

Dean felt sick.

 

Sam continued to watch him, head turning slightly in Dean's direction to ease the angle of his eyes. Dean noticed Sam's fingers slowly, cautiously exploring the area around them. It was at that point when Sam became aware of the cuffs holding his wrists to the cot – and it was at that point that Sam found his voice.

 

The shrill clatter of scraping metal filled the sound-proof room as Sam sat up and started struggling, shaking his wrists and straining to slip through them. Of course, the first real movements his brother would make after getting his soul back from Hell would be made in a blind panic, self-destructive. He didn't speak in words, just loud and angry syllables. Sounds that could have been words, but none that Dean understood.

 

“Sam!” Dean tried to grab for his brother, found himself inches from Sam's teeth, and backed off. He gave Bobby a helpless glance. The old man could only shake his head, not sure what to do. They had to get the cuffs off – at this rate, Sam was likely going to seriously injure himself. The metal was already slick with blood, having bitten into Sam's skin.

 

“Jesus, Dean! Hold him down, will ya?”

 

Without thinking, Dean moved behind his brother and wrapped his arms around him tightly, pinning him but avoiding teeth. “Make it quick, Bobby,” he gritted out as he struggled to hold his brother somewhat still.

 

Sam continued to groan and growl, jerking against Dean's hold on him in an effort to get at either of them. When Bobby reached out to unlock the restraints, Sam whimpered in such a desperate way that Dean felt as if he couldn't breathe. It wasn't the kind of sound he wanted his brother making.

 

Bobby managed to get one cuff undone but then Sam had a free hand. When he realized he couldn't get to Bobby, he reached up and back. Dean almost lost his hold on him, Sam's arm pulled so much at his grip. Nails clawed at his forearms, sinking deep into the flesh. Dean vowed that the first rule of business when this was over was to clip Sam's stupid, girly nails.

 

“Bobby.” He growled.

 

“I'm going as fast as I can, damn it!” Bobby shouted over the din of metal and screaming.

 

Dean was just about to give up, Sam was twisting and flexing too much to keep a hold on, when he heard a click and Bobby shouted that he'd done it. Dean let go.

 

Sam spun around so fast that he ended up on the floor. Bobby and Dean stood back, giving him space and waiting to see what he would do next. Rubbing away the blood on his arm, Dean was sincerely hoping Sam would calm down. He wasn't counting on it happening, but he could hope, right?

 

Despite having all but fallen off the cot, Sam landing on his hands and knees fairly gracefully, jumping up quickly and looking all around him. He held his hands out at his sides, ready to swing a fist if need be. It was hard to tell if he was just confused, or if he really didn't recognize where he was.

 

Dean bit his lip, helpless and unsure of what to do for him. “Sam?”

 

His brother's head swung around in his direction, fever-bright eyes narrowing on him.

 

Swallowing back unease, Dean said, “Hey, man. It's... it's me. Okay? It's just me and Bobby. You're... you're safe, Sam. Take it easy.”

 

Sam lost interest in his words halfway through their delivery, his attention moving back to his surroundings. He ghosted a hand over the desk and chair, fingers tracing the words on some papers and then reaching up to brush against the metal walls. His lips parted on a strangled noise before he growled and raked his nails harshly against the metal; the sound screeched through the still air and made the other two men reach up to cover their ears.

 

Noticing their distraction, Sam darted out the door. His footsteps shuffled over the concrete floor as he skidded to a halt before the stairs, gaze still moving around the basement. Finding no other alternative, or none that seemed suitable, Sam took the stairs two at a time. He could hear the other two clambering after him, shouts and distant words he barely recognized preceding their movements.

 

Breath left him in heavy gasps, adrenaline making his heart race more than the physical exertion. Sam darted down the hallway, almost over-turning a small lamp table, and came into the main living area. He paused, eyes tracking over the mountains of arcane texts and reference books. A soft tic pulled at his mouth as he stared around him, brow knitting in confusion, before he yanked himself out of his thoughts and continued putting space between himself and the others.

 

Without knowing exactly why he went the way he did, Sam found himself at the kitchen door. He grabbed the handle and pulled, growling when the door didn't want to open. He put his weight behind it, tugging hard at the handle, but it wouldn't give.

 

“Sam!”

 

He glanced furtively over his shoulder, finding a pair of frightened green eyes staring at him. He turned his attention back to the door, looking over the frame and trying to figure out how to open it.

 

By luck, Sam twisted his hand in panic and the door suddenly flew open. He staggered, trying to right his center of gravity. Once found, he dashed out the doorway, not even bothering with the porch steps but just jumping out and onto the ground.

 

Dean started to shout after him again, but the words died in his throat. His brother couldn't open a damned door, and when he  _did_ , he catapulted himself off the porch beyond it. His stomach dropped as he realized Sam was running out of Bobby's house, half-hysteric and panicking, and he was liable to get lost. Dean would have gotten his brother – his real, soul-in-tact brother – back from Hell only to have him get lost in the woods around Bobby's house.

 

“Sonuva--”

 

He gave Bobby a quick glance and then dashed out the door after Sam. Bobby may have shouted something after him, he couldn't be sure. His heartbeat pumped loudly in his ears as his attention narrowed solely on finding his brother. He couldn't lose Sam. Not now.

 

It turned out that he needn't have worried so much: Sam didn't go far. Rounding a corner of the house, Dean stumbled to a halt only a few feet from his stock-still brother.  _Well, that's a nice change._

 

Sam was staring at the Impala. His fingers twitched at the sides of his legs, itching to reach out and touch but afraid it would be only a mirage. A whimper escaped his throat when he finally got the courage to stroke her – soft, hesitant caresses along the hood, tracing over the grill and headlights.

 

He didn't understand why it meant so much that, standing here, in a sea of other cars,  _this_  was the car that he should be touching. It was like all the others – metal framing, rubber tires, a conglomeration of combustible parts that worked intricately to move the two tons of machinery. And yet... and yet he knew, somehow, that it was so much more than that.

 

Footsteps behind him made Sam's head whip around, a growl waiting in the back of his throat. It was that guy again, the one with the eyes. He was approaching with cautious steps and a submissive stance. Words were coming from his mouth but Sam didn't really understand them. His mind kept wanting to focus on them, like it wanted to know, but the guy just kept saying them and it didn't give Sam the pause needed to figure out the meaning. If he would just  _slow down_ , Sam could figure out what he was saying....

 

“Sammy... It's okay. It's just me. Your brother, yeah? Just me.” He kept saying the same words, waiting for them to stick in his brother's head, to break through the wall of whatever hellish pretenses he was hiding behind. And he kept taking slow, easy steps closer to his brother.

 

When Sam put his hands on the car, the expression on his face was filled with such anguish that Dean ached in sympathy, wishing he could ease his brother's pain. “Sam? It's... the car's not gonna hurt you, dude.” He tried to chuckle, a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, but it was too forced. He was too worried, too freaked to make anything convincing.

 

Sam stared at him, eyes narrowed as though he was just waiting for the other foot to drop.

 

“Do you even know who I am?” Dean felt his chest tighten; what if Sam didn't remember him? What if everything had gone wrong and he didn't actually get his brother back? “Oh Christ... Sammy, you don't... you don't even know, do you?” He could feel the sharp sting of tears trying so hard to get out. He wiped at his face, running the same hand through his hair, trying to push all the feelings and the  _oh god no_  thoughts to the back of his head. He'd deal with them later. “Come on, it's me! Your brother, Dean!”

 

Sam held up a hand, a request for pause. There was one word that the man kept speaking that hit a nerve with him. It was a weird nerve, too. It wasn't the usual painful kind of feeling that everything evoked in him now. It wasn't like when Lucifer taunted him, reminding him of how much Sam's life had been  _owned_  by fate. It didn't hurt the way the barbs and the claws and the bars compressing into his ribs hurt when he tried to crawl out of the Cage. It certainly wasn't the sort of pain he found outside of the Cage.

 

It was a warm kind of feeling. It hurt a little, but not like things hurt in Hell. It wasn't like the feeling of being on a wrack, or when they took you off the wrack and you turned a knife onto other souls. There was nothing  _agonizing_  about the way the word 'Dean' made him feel. It reminded him of that vague sense he got when he tried to climb out of Hell...

 

“Dean,” he said, a bit awkwardly, words still foreign to his tongue. He frowned, mouth working around the syllables. “Dean.”

 

If Sam had been paying attention, he might have noticed how Dean all but sobbed when he said his name. As it was, Sam was too busy working the word over and over in his mind. Like a piece of gristle he was determined to chew through, the word  _Dean_ was like a weight on his tongue that he couldn't work out. It made his head hurt and his heart hurt, and it replayed a confusing multitude of images through his mind.

 

There were little things, like sitting in the car that lounged patiently in front of him now. There was a gold something.... it was connected to a length of cord, and it meant  _something_ , something very important, but Sam couldn't remember. He could see it in his mind, wrapped up in newspaper and a smile on someone's face at finding it. Then he could see it, just as clearly, dropping into a metal can, and that stung. Badly.

 

Then there were bigger things, the kind of memories that made him jerk, bodily, away from them. There was a fire and someone screaming and this man pulling him away from the flames. There was a hospital and a Ouija board and an overwhelmingly confusing sense of relief and concern. He could see the otherworldly gouges in the flesh as he held the man in his arms, and cried. It hurt worse to think of that memory than most of the tortures he had endured.

 

The word was heavy, weighted down with so many thoughts and feelings and memories that it made Sam's head spin. He stared at the man in front of him, at  _Dean_ , and then he couldn't stop looking at everything. There were the trees that closed in around them; and there was the sky – had it always been that blue? – and there was the soft sound of life outside, surrounding them, filling his ears; there was the heat of the sun and the coolness of a breeze; there was... there was so much, too much, and Sam couldn't handle it.

 

He passed out.

 

* * *

 

 

It wasn't much later that Dean and Bobby were sitting at the kitchen table, knocking back rotgut and waiting for his brother to wake up, again. At Dean's insistence, they had left Sam on the couch in the living room, unshackled. Bobby had groused over it, but Dean argued that if Sam was going to freak out then there was nothing to be done for it and handcuffing him again certainly wasn't going to help matters. Bobby didn't like it, but he knew better than to argue when Dean got an idea in his head.

 

Being in the kitchen, neither man noticed that Sam had woken up. They didn't know that he sat on the couch, picking at the wrappings around his wrists; they didn't see him press hard against the white paper-tape and watch as it lazily soaked through with red. They certainly didn't see the uncomprehending expression play out on Sam's face as he tried to puzzle why the wound was being kept closed.

 

Nor did they hear him when he stood up from the couch, staring around him in a confused daze and looking like he kept waiting to really wake up. Sam's feet were silent as he padded across the wooden floor, following the clink of glasses and the low whispers filtering from the adjacent room.

 

Leaning around the door frame, he tried to ask something but still had troubling finding words. “U-uhm...?” His voice sounded pitifully young.

 

In his haste to turn around, Dean almost overturned the bottle of whiskey – Bobby objected loudly, but Dean wasn't paying attention. He was much too busy looking up at his little brother, who was leaning up against the doorjamb, seemingly fascinated with tracing the whorls of the woodwork with his fingernail.

 

“Sam?”

 

His brother blinked, head moving lazily toward him. His eyes were unfocused and his attention was obviously waning.

 

Dean tried again, “Sam. Hey, you okay?” He stood up from the table and closed the distance between them.

 

Sam held up his hand, leaning back a bit. Dean stopped, only a foot from Sam, close enough to see his chest rising with each slow breath, the way his Adam's apple moved in a nervous swallow, and the way his pupils dilated when they came to rest on Dean. He opened his mouth a few times, but all that came out were some halted, voiceless noises.

 

“Hey,” said Dean, trying to be compassionate despite how much he wanted to interrogate his little brother, “It's okay, Sam. Just, real slow. You okay? You want something to drink? Eat?”

 

Attention still a visible struggle to maintain, Sam looked at his brother, really  _looked_ at him. Dean didn't know what he should have done or said – his brother was acting like he'd stepped out of a reject Robert Ludlam novel – but Dean stood there, in front of his little brother, maintaining eye contact and waiting for him to figure out which passport had the right name.

 

There was a soft moment where everything seemed to hang in free-fall and Sam's eyes grew impossibly wide. “ _Dean_.” He fell forward and wrapped his arms tight around Dean, almost choking the air out of him.

 

Coughing in surprise, Dean hugged him back. This was good, right? Sam. Hugging him. Meant Sam knew who he was. Also, probably meant that Sam wasn't going to knife him or try to run out of the house again. That was definitely good.

 

“Well,” Bobby's voice broke through their little bubble and said, “I'm just gonna go get back to work while you two girls sort out your feelings, okay?”

 

Pulling away from his brother, Dean frowned at Bobby and his passive aggressiveness. Sam hadn't even been paying attention, Dean realized when he turned back to his brother; his too-bright, curious eyes roamed over the kitchen, taking in all the little details, and paid Bobby's attitude no mind.

 

“Alright, Bobby,” Dean said, “We'll just... be here.”

 

Bobby eyed him, then Sam, and then he left without another word.

 

Sam's eyes tracked after him as he left, scrutinizing and puzzling.

 

“You hungry?” Dean would be damned if he didn't break through this funk his brother was in.

 

Sam started to say something, the syllables actually forming on his tongue, but then he paused. Eyes darting over Dean's shoulder, at where Bobby had been sitting before, he frowned and Dean could practically  _hear_ the gears straining. Clearing his throat and returning his gaze to Dean, Sam asked, “How?”

 

“How what? Oh, you mean... Uhm. Well. Death and I... we, uh, worked out a bargain.” He paused, waiting for Sam to rag on him about making deals, but his brother remained silent.

 

In fact, the odd, detached, scrutinizing attention he gave Dean was vaguely reminiscent of the way Castiel had always looked at him – confused but intrigued.

 

He continued, “It's a done deal, Sam. Finished. No strings. Just... just you. Back.” He smiled because, no matter what the consequences, he had gotten Sam out of the Cage, and that was cause for celebration.

 

Sam nodded slowly. His expression was still distant, brow knit tight in deep thought, but he seemed to have at least registered what Dean told him, even if he didn't quite comprehend the meaning.

 

Pointing vaguely at the door, Sam asked, “He's... 'Bobby'?”

 

Dean blinked. “Yeah. Bobby. You know, practically-family-Bobby? Saved-our-asses-more-times-than-we-can-count-Bobby?” Sighing, he shook his head and grumbled, “Jesus, Sam, do you remember anything at all?”

 

“I remember Hell.”

 

The deadpan answer made Dean's thoughts stumble and trip over the memories it suddenly conjured into his mind, all cut-and-pasted with the face of his sweet little brother in his place.

 

Sam's expression was terrifyingly open, all but daring Dean to ask  _how much_ , as if Dean would ever have the nerve to find out what Sam had gone through down there. Hell was Hell – angry, painful, gnawing at the best parts of you until there was nothing, not even the memory, left behind – but the Cage? That was a whole other kind of beast.

 

Dean nodded, licking and biting at his bottom lip. “Yeah,” he whispered, “I deserved that.” He smiled sadly at Sam. “You wanna talk about it?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“Good, I don't want to either.” Turning away, he brushed past Sam and into the living room. “So, let's try a different tactic. You remember me?” He flopped into one of the worn lounge chairs in front of Bobby's desk and watched his brother. It was almost a rhetorical question – he certainly didn't expect Sam to answer with anything other than 'yes'.

 

However, Sam didn't answer right away.

 

He had turned around in the doorway, following Dean's movements, but hadn't actually stepped into the room. His gaze flitted over all the books, lingering on the shelves of ancient, macabre artifacts, until finally, he fixated on Dean. He looked awkward and uncomfortable, like a kid the first time he's asked to turn his head and cough.

 

“Well,” Sam said softly, “I... Yes and no?”

 

“What the hell does that mean?”

 

Sam sighed and fidgeted, taking a few steps into the room just to be able to move. “I  _do_ remember you. I remember that you are Dean. You're my big brother. You... you practically raised me. You idealized our father. You... you were Micheal's vessel but they chose... they chose someone else instead – you weren't in the Cage with me but I can't....” He struggled for a moment, frowning and pursing his lips.

 

“It's okay,” said Dean, “Just... forget it. What else?”

 

“You love greasy, unhealthy food and mullet rock.” A smile pulled at the corners of his lips. It was the same shy smile Sam had always had, ever since he was a kid; like the whole world couldn't be allowed to know he had felt a single moment of happiness – things like that weren't allowed in the Winchesters' lives. He sighed, smile falling. “You're my brother... you were more than that, I think.”

 

The last bit made Dean squirm uncomfortably – he was itching to jump up and show his brother how much he had missed him, but given circumstances, he had opted to suppress that urge.

 

Shrugging again, Sam finished with, “I remember you.”

 

When he stayed quiet, eyes trained on the floor between his feet, Dean prompted, “But....?”

 

“But I don't really know you.” He lifted his head, gazing out pitifully at Dean from underneath that mop of hair. He looked like he was waiting for a bomb to drop.

 

“You just rattled off a whole list of things, Sammy. Sure, you know me.” He leaned forward in his chair, staring at his brother.

 

“Those are just... just actions, behaviors. Dean, I don't... It's been a  _lifetime_  since I saw you. I don't  _know_  you anymore.”

 

Dean studied the desperate way Sam grimaced, the begging motion in his fidgeting hands, the way his brow creased in sadness.  _It's been a lifetime since I saw you... been a lifetime since I saw..._ The words echoed in his head, skipping like a broken record,  _a lifetime since... lifetime...._

 

“How long were you down there, Sam?” He whispered, barely able to meet Sam's eyes when he asked.

 

His brother shrugged, taking a deep breath and shaking his head. “A long time. I really couldn't tell you how long... you kind of lose track after the first century.” He grinned mirthlessly.

 

“ _First_? How many were there?” Dean stood up, shaking. It hadn't been that long... couldn't have been that long.

 

“Like I said, Dean, I don't know. I lost track, okay? You know how time goes down there – the deeper you go, the more it stretches. The Cage is deep..... Really. Deep.” There was an edge in Sam's voice, a void behind his eyes when he said it that made Dean's spine want to squirm out of his skin.

 

Dean felt like his breath had been crushed from his lungs, the words like a harsh punch to his solar plexus. Sam couldn't have been there that long. He just couldn't have. Dean took too long to figure things out. He took too long to get Sam back. And Sam suffered for it...

 

“Sam...” He started, the words failing before they could reach his lips.  _I'm so sorry, Sammy._

 

Sam shook his head, waving a dismissive hand as if he already knew what Dean wanted to say but couldn't. “Don't. It's...” He shrugged, “Just don't okay? I'm here, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Dean barely found voice enough to answer with, “Yeah. You're right. You're here.” He put on a brave smile, forcing the feelings further away. Clapping his hands – and regretting it when Sam flinched at the loud noise – he asked, “So. You want a beer?”

 

“Sure.”

 

They drank in silence.

 

* * *

 

Screaming woke Dean for the third night in a row. It was getting to the point that he was thinking of just moving a bunch of blankets and cushions into the spare bedroom so he could be there when Sam woke up.

 

As it was, Dean had taken the couch in the living room and Sam, the spare bed. Every night since Sam got his soul back, he had woken up (sometimes more than once a night) screaming, and Dean would have to roll over, hit the floor running so to speak, and go calm him down.

 

Tonight was no different. Dean padded, half-conscious, up the stairs and into the spare room, pushing the creaking door open and looking in to find his brother crouched in the furthest corner of the mattress. He had his hands out, fingers splayed across the walls, and his head all but snapped toward Dean when he came in.

 

“No,” Sam cried,“Don't, please. Not this...not this... no, no, no.”

 

It never stopped hurting to hear Sam say things like that. It wasn't so much the words as the pitiful and helpless whine behind the  _no_ 's that really left Dean's heart bruised. He shushed his brother, trying to say calming words despite his sleep-rough voice.

 

Sam cowered, pushing himself further and further away from Dean until he was flush against the wall. His feet were tangled up in the sheets. His hair was sweat-damp and clinging to his brow. His eyes were wide with terror, staring straight through his older brother. He looked  _at_  Dean but he didn't  _see_  Dean.

 

Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Dean reached out – biting back guilt when Sam recoiled in fear – and placed his hand gently on his shoulder. “Sam, it's just me. You're at Bobby's house. You're safe.” He yawned, using his other hand to try and cover his mouth. “Come on, man. Wake up.”

 

Sam didn't seem any more coherent, despite Dean's assurances. He trembled beneath Dean's hand, pulling at his own hair and biting hard at his lip. Dean frowned, wondering for the hundredth time why he had thought this was a good idea –  _because it got him out of the Cage_. Fat lot of good it did when Sam just revisited his greatest hits while he slept.

 

Dean climbed up onto the mattress, leaning back against the wall behind it. Reaching out again, he ran his hand through Sam's hair. He had stumbled upon the trick during the previous night – Sam calmed so easily if Dean showed him just the slightest gentle affection. So, he'd made a mental note to play with Sam's hair when these panic attacks hit. It reminded him of when they were kids and Sam had nightmares for  _so long,_ and Dean had been there for him because John certainly wasn't and they didn't have a mom.

 

It also scratched an itch that Dean had developed, wanting to prove that this hadn't been a complete fuck-up on his part and that he  _could_  make this work. In the end, getting Sam's soul out had been the right decision to make, consequences be damned.

 

It also felt damn good to touch Sam, even if it was in the most innocent way possible.

 

Sam whimpered at first, expecting a blow. After a little while, though, he started to relax and stretch himself out a bit more – it really was amazing, Dean found, how small Sam could make himself when he wanted to. Sam wriggled closer to Dean, just close enough to barely be touching him, and closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of Dean's fingers carding through his long hair.

 

Tonight, Sam was mostly silent. He stopped whimpering but every few minutes he would sigh and there would be just the softest hint of a whine behind it, vexed and discomforted, accompanied by a shudder that made the bed quake; watching his brother in the half-dark of the room, Dean noticed Sam's fingers dug into his palms each time. He worried his lip, wondering what had happened in Sam's dreams tonight to make things so difficult to pull away from.

 

They sat like that for a long time: Dean's fingers running through Sam's hair, Sam working his way through painful memories and accompanying tremors. Then, Sam whispered into the dark, “I can't do this anymore.”

 

“What?”

 

Clearing his throat, Sam spoke up a bit. “I can't... Dean, I can't keep doing this. I can't keep revisiting it. It's too hard. Every time, I'm convinced that this—” He pressed a firm hand on Dean's chest. It shocked Dean: the first time Sam had ever voluntarily touched him. “--this here, I think it was all a dream... and then I wake up and, and I can't,” his voice cracked painfully, tears making the words thick as he spoke, “God, Dean, I can't tell what's real. If this is the dream o-or if Hell is.. or if Hell was real but now I'm dreaming about it...” Turning his face against the mattress, he muffled his sobs.

 

“Hey,” soothed Dean, reaching his other hand around Sam's shoulder, gently pulling him closer. Sam whimpered but complied, curling up tight against his brother. “Hey, it's okay... This is what's real.”

 

He didn't know what else to say – what  _could_ he say? He was powerless. Dean had dragged Sam back and now he needed to make this right, but he didn't know how.

 

Sam fell asleep eventually, whimpers slowly subsiding into hushed breaths. Dean stayed awake, fingers still carding through his brother's hair, thinking over everything. The light outside the window was turning the soft pink of dawn when the door creaked open again and Bobby's scruffy face appeared around the doorjamb.

 

“Well, ain't that sweet.”

 

“Shhh.” Dean frowned, glancing at his sleeping brother. Sam stirred a bit at the noise, but stayed still.

 

“How long you been up?” Bobby whispered.

 

Shrugging the shoulder Sam wasn't currently tangled up in, Dean answered, “A while. He fell back to sleep. I didn't.”

 

“Yeah. You look it--” Dean glared, mouthing  _thanks_ , “--I'm gonna make breakfast. We need to talk,” he said pointedly and left before Dean could finish nodding in response.

 

With a little finagling, Dean managed to get himself out from under the hulking mass of his little brother. Sam stirred, eyes blinking open drowsily, and his hand – previously holding onto Dean's shirt – gripped at the bedsheets in search of its previous hold.

 

“De...?” He mumbled, starting to sit up.

 

Dean placed a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder, urging him back down to the mattress. “Just going downstairs, Sam. I'll be back in a bit, okay?” He ruffled his hair a little, watching his brother's eyes shut. “Just get some more sleep.”

 

“Mm'kay...”

 

Bobby already had eggs sizzling by the time Dean put some pants on and made his way downstairs.

 

“How's sleeping beauty?”

 

“Sleeping,” replied Dean, snatching up a piece of toast and taking a seat at the table.

 

“Well that's good. Someone has to get some decent shut eye in this house.”

 

Sighing, Dean put the bread down and fixed the back of Bobby's head with a steady stare. “If you got something to say, Bobby, then say it. You've been moping around ever since he got back and I'm getting tired of it.”

 

Bobby turned around, pausing long enough to take a deep breath. “I'm glad he's back. I really am. But... that kid went straight up Menedez on me not 10 days ago--”

 

“It wasn't him--”

 

“Maybe it wasn't  _all_ Sam, but it was him, Dean. And ever since he's come back, it's... Damn it, I haven't slept right since!”

 

“Keep your voice down,” Dean chided, mindful of his brother upstairs, “Look, I don't know what you want me to do, Bobby.” He frowned, at a loss. He hated putting Bobby out, but he didn't know what else he could do about it. “We can leave. We can just... get a motel and make sure we don't have neighbors...”

 

Even  _he_  knew how stupid he sounded.

 

“You idjit!” Dean gave him a warning look that made Bobby hiss the rest. “Don't even say stupid crap like that. I ain't kicking you boys out or nothing, but damn it, gotta do something about this.”

 

Dean nodding, looking down at the tabletop and frowning in thought.

 

“Bobby.”

 

They both looked up to see Sam standing there in the doorway, hand resting on the jamb of it and his nails scratching – he never seemed to be able to stop touching things like that, cataloging the world like a toddler.

 

“Sam,” the older man said by way of greeting. “I'm making breakfast, why don't you sit down with Dean and I'll fix you a plate, too.”

 

Sam stared at him a moment too long to be comfortable and then, with a subtle tilt of his head, he frowned. “You were dead.”

 

Both of the other men shouted, “What?”

 

“You were dead,” he deplored, looking to Dean for some kind of reassurance but his older brother had none. “I... I felt Lucifer snap your neck.”

 

“You remember that?” It was possible that Dean's eyebrows might have jumped clear off his face, but Sam just nodded like he was claiming the sky was blue.

 

Bobby, on the other hand, fidgeted uncomfortably. “Cas fixed me up.”

 

“Cas...” Sam frowned, brown knitting together in thought.

 

“Sam,” Dean interrupted that train of thought, not wanting to bring up anymore dark memories, “Sit down. You need to eat something. You skipped dinner last night – don't even act like you didn't.”

 

“Wasn't gonna,” he replied as he took his seat. His grumpy affect made him seem all of five years old.

 

Dean bumped his knee against Sam's under the table, grinning at him. He was pleased when Sam didn't flinch away from the touch, even more so when he playfully smiled back.

 

Bobby dropped a plate – complete with an extraslice of toast – in front of Sam. “I gotta look some stuff up for a friend. Hope you won't mind if I don't join you two lovebirds.” With a quick glance at Sam and then a meaningful look to Dean, Bobby walked off into the study.

 

Turning to his brother, Dean pointed his fork at Sam's food. “Eat.”

 

Sam made a face at the plate in front of him. Ever since coming back, Sam had stopped eating so much – in fact, he didn't eat unless Dean or Bobby forced him to. He “forgot” to do it, since it hadn't been a necessity for so long and hunger pains just didn't register anymore. It made Dean's eyes roll at the very thought.

 

“Sam,” warned Dean.

 

“Okay, okay.”

 

* * *

 

No matter how many times Bobby or Dean told Sam he could sit on the couch, he continuously sat on the floor. But not just on the floor – between Dean's feet. He would prop himself up against the couch, comfortably situated between Dean's knees, and act as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

 

The thing was – it sort of was the most natural thing. While Sam and Dean had been growing up, it had always been like this: Dean sitting on the couch, or the edge of a worn motel mattress, or the Impala's trunk, or whatever, with Sam sitting between his feet. It was just so  _them_. So when Sam started up with that habit now, Dean didn't really think anything of it, no matter how strange it may have seemed.

 

Even now, he saw the same look on Bobby's face that he had seen back when he was barely a teenager. It spoke of unease but no judgment – he wasn't sure Bobby would ever look at either of them with judgment in his eyes – and though it made Dean a little pink with embarrassment (no one had ever  _known_ what he and Sam did – for obvious reasons), he could hardly complain. Sam flinched away from sudden movements; he shied away from most touches; when his mind slipped away into the darker edges of his memory, it was Dean's hand on his arm that calmed him, not an embrace. So when Sam willingly moved within Dean's space and leaned against his knee with half-masked affection, it made Dean proud – his brother was tougher than they had ever given him credit for.

 

One day it was just Dean and Sam in the study since Bobby had gone on a quick run into town for something. Sam had been reading through every text he could that afternoon, trying to find another solution for Bobby, and Dean suggested he and Sam just take it easy for a while. When Dean sat on the couch, Sam got up from the desk and positioned himself between Dean's feet, crossing his ankles out in front of him, and continued to keep his nose in the book. Dean nursed a beer with one hand and let his other play with Sam's hair.

 

Sam started a little at the first brush of Dean's fingers but, when he realized what it was, he leaned back into the warmth of his palm. Dean hummed a sigh of contentment and leaned back against the couch, knees sliding out so his thighs bracketed Sam's shoulders. He twisted his fingers through Sam's hair, combing it and twirling it, running his nails lightly over his scalp. Sam gave small encouraging sounds sometimes when Dean did something particularly enjoyable, but was otherwise engrossed in his book.

 

They sat in companionable silence for a while. Dean had closed his eyes, leaning back into the couch, but still sifting his fingers through Sam's hair.

 

Then Sam whispered to him, “It's so hard to trust it.”

 

“Hmm?” He asked, opening one eye. He was cautiously optimistic – sometimes Sam talking was a good thing, other times it meant shit was gonna hit the fan. He hoped it was the former this time.

 

Sam sighed and close the book in his lap. Leaning back against Dean's hand, he tried to find the right words. “In...,” he started but found his throat choked with emotions at the very thought of...  _There_. He couldn't talk about that place. Not yet.

 

He tried again, turning a little so he could meet Dean's eyes. “It's just been a long time since, you know, someone's done this sort of thing.... It's hard to trust it.”

 

Dean frowned, and Sam's stomach fluttered with the anxious fear that Dean might tell him to get lost, tell him to leave. He didn't know where he would go or what he would do if Dean wasn't with him.

 

Sam knew he was messed up – there was no denying that fact. Grown men didn't wake up in the middle of the night, sometimes multiple times a night, screaming from night terrors. Grown men interacted with other people, they made small talk and shared opinions. Sam... Sam didn't have that. Dean could just as well have checked him into a veteran's clinic, claiming he was suffering post traumatic stress disorder, and they would have believed it.

 

Sam knew he was getting better, but better was a relative term.

 

Looking up at his brother, Sam tried to smile, tried to convince Dean that he really  _was_ trying to be more human, and less of a victim. He turned his head slightly, leaning into Dean's touch. It felt nice, Dean's fingers cradling the curve of his jaw. Part of him was antsy, wary of any touch – too many times he had been lured into thinking something promised respite, when it actually was just biding time until it could rip him apart.

 

He liked Dean, though. He could understand why they had been... more. Even as screwed up as Sam was, he and Dean still fell into step together, knew the other's words before they were voiced, still knew how to communicate without speaking. It had only been a week since Sam returned to his body, and he already felt miles closer to his brother.

 

Dean leaned toward him, a soft smile tugging at his lips. It was endearing, how Dean grinned at him sometimes: playful, childish, and full of sinful promises. Sam felt Dean move his hand further up his jaw, fingers grazing over the soft spot just below his ear. A thrill of lust worked up Sam's spine, filling him with heat.

 

He wanted to reach out – almost started to, before an avalanche of memories took his breath away. Memories filled with pain and anguish and loss and blood,  _drenched_  in blood and sorrow. Dark thoughts twisted their way through Sam's mind, reminding him of the angels, the demons, the creatures without names, and all the unspeakable things they had done to him.

 

He cringed away from his older brother, reflexively shutting his eyes against the images in his mind. “I'm sorry,” he whispered, wishing he could just  _touch_ ; touch without worrying about what the sensation would dredge up from the macabre corners of his consciousness.

 

Cursing under his breath, Dean sat up straight and leaned forward. “No, no,” he replied, “That was... I shouldn't have done that.” He bit his lip, dreading what his moment of careless absentmindedness could cost him. Sam had been so calm all day...

 

Sam had turned away so that Dean couldn't see his face, but his shoulders rose and fell with each deep breath he took –  _trying to calm himself down_ , Dean realized. This was good. Even if he couldn't do it, at least he was trying.

 

Dean hadn't anticipated it but Sam turned a little toward him, just so Dean could see his profile. Sam's eyes were fixated on some part of the carpet beneath the couch.

 

Sam said, “You were there, right? I remember the hounds... and you being...” His expression twisted a little and he dropped his head, hands clenching in his lap. After a tense moment, he looked back up – though still not meeting Dean's eyes. “You know what it's like. You know what they do.... And I know what we were. I remember how it felt, and... and I want it to feel like that now, but, Dean--” His voice tightened, throat choked with emotion.

 

“Hey,” Dean whispered, reaching out and turning Sam toward him, “It's okay, Sam. You call the shots. I'm just glad to have you back. ” He searched Sam's face for some sign of trust or agreement.

 

Sam nodded, eyes darting away from Dean's, but he seemed to understand.

 

“It's only been a year for me, Sam. I haven't had nearly enough time to adjust, you know?” He laughed, humorlessly, picking at a broken thread in the knee of his jeans. “I don't mean to upset you... and if I do, well, then I'm sorry. It's just force of habit.” He tried to smile, tried to assure Sam of what he was saying.

 

Again, Sam nodded.

 

“Okay, then.” Dean leaned back against the sofa and nodded to the book Sam had discarded. “You find anything?”

 

“Not yet,” said Sam with a soft shake of his head.

 

“Well,” Dean said, setting his feet firmly on either side of Sam's knees, “Best get back to it, then.” He smiled, and Sam smiled back.

 

* * *

 

Sam had been restless all morning and afternoon, pacing around and unable to concentrate. He was frightened by every sound, every movement. Even if he was looking right at Bobby or Dean, he would jump whenever they spoke to him. If they  _sneezed_ , Sam would flinch.

 

It was difficult, more so for Dean than Bobby. Dean felt guilty for not being able to help, being useless against this sudden paranoia his brother had developed. He thought perhaps things would have been better today, since Sam had only had one small nightmare the night before, but no such luck. Dean was aggravated, frustrated by his own helplessness and the way life continued to be so unfair to the Winchester family – hadn't they given enough? Hadn't they proven themselves time and time again? If anyone deserved a damned reprieve it was Sam, and yet, none was to be found. Sam still suffered.

 

His patience was thin for most of the day. When Bobby suggested he and Sam take a walk around the property, take a breather and just get away from the house, Dean figured it to be a good idea. Sam and he needed the fresh air.

 

As was expected, Sam was skittish when they went outside, eyes darting around and his head subtly jerking here and there, taking in everything. Dean just stayed by his side, not quite bumping elbows with him, and spoke to him as they moved. Sam had been mostly mute that day, anyway, so it was a one-sided conversation. Dean had to wonder if Sam even heard what he was saying.

 

They worked their way to the property line, denoted by a long line of dense woods, which they turned to follow. It wasn't quite a random pattern to walk, but it was aimless, both men enjoying the chance to stretch their legs – well, Dean was enjoying it, Sam was still a bit twitchy.

 

So twitchy, in fact, that Dean didn't give any thought to the way Sam tensed at a sudden rustling in the underbrush a few feet ahead of them. Dean figured it was some little animal skittering away and Sam was, as he had all day, just being paranoid. This time, however, Sam was correct.

 

A raccoon came running out of the woods, rabid and foaming. Dean barely had time to reach for his gun before his brother darted away from him, faster than Dean thought he was capable of moving.

 

“Sam! No!”

 

Panic surged through his veins as he watched Sam all but pounce on the smaller creature. They tussled in the tall grass, snarling and clawing. Dean could have sworn some of those snarls weren't coming from the raccoon.

 

As Dean closed the distance between himself and his brother, he was shocked to hear the wasted cry of the raccoon. Even more shocking, when he came closer, he found Sam on his knees, back facing Dean. Dread filled his stomach.

 

“Sammy?”

 

With another inhuman growl, Sam whirled around. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated, but they were haunted and unseeing. His gaze made Dean want to back away slowly and leave his brother there. Dean was scared; scared of the creature kneeling before him with blood-covered hands and a grisly mouth. God, Sam had bitten  _into_ the raccoon's  _neck_. Shifting his eyes away from his brother, Dean could see the gruesome amalgamation that was left of the animal's throat. Sam had torn this thing apart... and now he was looking up at Dean with a very predatory expression. He was poised, ready to attack again if need be.

 

“Sammy?” He tried again, keeping his voice soft and trying not to let his terror seep through. “It—It's me: Dean. Can you... uhm... Can you put that thing down? It's kinda gross.” He almost smiled but then remembered something in the back of his mind – likely from one of those stupid nature shows Sam was always watching – about animals baring their teeth as a sign of aggression.

 

He snapped his mouth closed.

 

Sam quirked his head to the side a little, brow tightening as he studied the man before him. He was smaller than Sam. Sam could take him if he wanted to, just like he had mauled the creature in his hands right now. What the hell had this little thing thought it was doing? Attacking him and his brother.... Wait.

 

Sam looked away from the man before him, confusion worming its way into his consciousness. His brother... He had been protecting his brother. He had.....  _Dean_. The name bubbled up into his thoughts. Dean, he had been protecting Dean. Yes. And, and that meant he wasn't... he was...

 

Sam looked up at Dean and saw, with sudden clarity, the terror hiding in the lines around his eyes, the way his mouth worked nervously and his pulse pounded against the skin of his neck. Worse, his brother wasn't looking at the animal Sam had attacked. He was looking at Sam.  _He's scared of_ you.

 

Looking back down at his hands, Sam shouted in surprise and threw the dead carcass away from him. What had he done? What.. what had he been thinking? He had attacked that animal, savagely pulled it apart – he could still taste the blood in his mouth. Oh God,  _he could still taste it_.

 

Sam stumbled on his knees, turning away from the gruesome sight, and vomited.

 

Dean almost sighed in relief. Sam was himself again, he knew that much – he had seen the way Sam's eyes had slowly melted from dull and hallow, into realization and terror. Sam had scared  _himself_.

 

Kneeling next to his brother, Dean pressed a sturdy hand against Sam's shoulder. He whispered soft words of acceptance,  _it's okay, I've got you, you're alright_ , and held Sam's hair back until the shivers quaking through his body had passed. But just because Sam had stopped heaving, didn't mean things were better. Dean could see the screwed-up shape of Sam's face, the way he was trying so hard to keep himself together.

 

“Hey,” he said softly, pushing at Sam's shoulder to make him turn around, “Hey, look at me. What happened?” He stared at his brother, trying to make Sam meet his gaze.

 

Sam stared away from him, though, looking out at the horizon. “I.. I don't know. I just... I wasn't  _thinking_ , Dean. I didn't know what I was doing. I don't even really remember...” He glanced down to his hands and that was it, his mouth twisted into a grimace and tears spilled over his cheeks. “I don't know why I did that,” he whispered, hanging his head.

 

Dean frowned, unsure what to say. He'd have been lying if he said he wasn't freaked out; the image of Sam, bent over the ruined body of that animal, the savage sounds he made as he ripped and maimed, all of what just transpired had him thoroughly unsettled. A large part of him wanted to shag ass away from the man who sat, shivering, next to him.

 

Despite that, Dean stayed close to his brother, offering what little support he could.

 

“It's okay, Sam. Let's just get you inside and cleaned up, okay? We're not too far from the house. Come on. Up.” He slipped his hand under Sam's arm, pulling gently.

 

They made it back to the house in silence. Sometimes Sam would start to slow his gait and turn, trying to look back at what he'd done, but Dean put an arm around his shoulders and kept him going.

 

“What the hell?” Bobby shouted as the two boys walked up to the porch.

 

Dean raised a hand, motioning for him to calm down. “It's fine, Bobby. No one's hurt. Well...” He glanced at his brother, covered in blood and still shivering. “Sam might need to get a rabies shot. Can rabies be transmitted through blood?”

 

Bobby's eyes grew comically wide, but the man took a moment and composed himself before he said, “I'll look into it.”

 

“Thanks,” Dean said, starting to smile.

 

It was halted, however, by an anguished noise from Sam, his mouth half open in fear as he stared down at his bloody hands.  _You're just now noticing you're covered in blood?_  Dean couldn't believe it, but Sam was suddenly back to where he had been out in the field: tearful, scared, and unstable.

 

“Come on,” mumbled Dean, “Let's get you cleaned up.”

 

“No,” Sam was whispering as they climbed into the house, his feet tripping over one another. Mostly it was unintelligible noises Sam made, only sometimes managing to say  _Dean_ or  _no._

 

They had to drug him to get him to sleep that night.

 

* * *

 

“Dean,” Sam whimpered.

 

“Shh, it was just a nightmare. It's okay.”

 

“No, it's not.” His voice was soft, ragged and desperate.

 

At least Sam hadn't woken up screaming this time; surprising, considering the earlier events of the evening. Sam had cried and whimpered the whole rest of the night after what happened with the raccoon. Even when he finally passed out from the drugs, he slept fitfully.

 

Dean had woken only moments before Sam said his name. The subtle shifts of Sam's body, the way his breathing hitched and shuddered its way out of his lungs, all of it woke Dean up whether he wanted it to or not. The night had not been one for sound sleeping.

 

“It's fine,” he mumbled, still half-asleep. “C'mere... it's okay. This is what's real, Sam. This. Me. Bobby. We're real.” He pressed his hand to Sam's elbow, surprised to find Sam scooting closer to him.

 

Sam pushed up into Dean's space, wrapping an arm around his waist. Dean's skin prickled at the touch, the affection – but it really wasn't that, was it? Sam was looking for comfort, for some kind of affirmation and reassurance. He was scared; maybe he had relived what happened earlier and needed to be reminded of which reality he belonged to. Reassurance: that was all. Sam didn't... Sam couldn't want anything more than that. Dean had pushed those feelings away, and had no plans of dragging them back out.

 

Dean indulged himself, though. He missed the contact with his brother. They had never really cuddled one another, had never made a  _thing_  of it, but their relationship had always been more than it should have been. Brothers didn't do things like this... Like hold their neurotic brother to them in a lover's embrace late at night to try and help him get through a nightmare.

 

Sam sighed, body relaxing against Dean. Every breath Dean let go of made Sam's hair move and tickle his chin. Without thinking, he tipped his head an extra inch and placed a kiss against Sam's brow. Chaste and innocent; affection, not proposition. His lips lingering against his brother's skin, Dean worried that perhaps he had overstepped his boundaries again.

 

Chastising himself as he pulled away, Dean cursed his own stupidity. Had he not told Sam that he would  _stop_ this? He wasn't going to do anything Sam didn't want him to. Damn it! Sam would pull away now; he would curl into the corner of the bed, back facing Dean, and shiver his way through the aftermath of Hell.

 

But, nothing of the sort happened. Sam tensed under his hold in momentary discomfort, and then eased back into the cradle of Dean's arms. Turning slightly, Sam pressed his nose to Dean's chest – a subtle admission – and Dean smiled. This was okay. He hadn't scared Sam off, and Sam was returning the affection. He pressed another quick kiss to Sam's brow before lying back, fingers threaded through his little brother's hair.

 

“I...” Sam started to say, whispering warm words that seeped through the thing cotton of Dean's shirt.

 

Dean shook his head. “Shhh, it's okay.”

 

“No,” he insisted, “No, I-I want... I miss this. I just...” He paused and Dean could just imagine the way Sam would purse his lips and look around, trying to find his words on the walls of their room.

 

Sam missed this? Dean's heart leaped at the idea, but he tried to forget it. Hope only hurt in the end.

 

“Can.. Can I?” Sam had lifted up a bit on his elbow, so he could look directly at Dean. Even in the dark of their room, Dean could see the intensity in Sam's expression.

 

“Uh... sure, Sammy.” What exactly was it he was letting Sam do?

 

Sam leaned in, pulled back a fraction of an inch, and then closed the space between them.

 

Oh. He was kissing.... This was good.

 

He let Sam lead, his hands resting along Sam's broad shoulders and holding him close but not tightly. Sam was hesitant at first, giving soft pecks and only occasionally letting his lips part. Dean kept waiting, kept wishing, for Sam to open his mouth just a little more, but he tamped down the reflex to push and take; he needed to be patient. This was too good a thing to mess up now.

 

Sam shifted, his knee sliding up between Dean's legs and it was all Dean could do to keep from moaning. His hips arched up to meet Sam's thigh, one of his hands sliding down Sam's spine to rest on his hip, giving the softest pull of encouragement. That was all it seemed to take, and then Sam was on him.

 

His hands tangled in Dean's short hair, pulling himself up closer. Dean willfully followed, mouth open and inviting as Sam pressed his tongue teasingly across Dean's lips. Dean took the invitation, fitting his mouth to Sam's and sliding his tongue further. They met in the middle and Sam all but mewled at the contact.

 

They fell into sync then: Dean sitting up as Sam scooted back. Breaking the kiss apart, Sam straddled Dean's lap just as Dean leaned forward to press his mouth to Sam's neck. Shivers raced along Sam's spine, making his toes curl, but it was so good, it felt wonderful. He wanted so much. He wanted to be held; he wanted to kiss and be kissed; he wanted to be loved and to love in return; he wanted what they had once had, wanted them to have more; he wanted Dean. He wanted Dean so much. He couldn't get enough of the smell, the touch, the taste, the sound – Dean moaned into his mouth as Sam pressed flush against his chest.

 

Sam  _wanted._ He wanted everything. He wanted Dean's mouth against his, he wanted Dean's hands everywhere, he wanted Dean inside him, he wanted to be inside of Dean, he wanted to dig his way into the flesh, further and further, until he could feel the heat of Dean's heart beating its last pulse, his lungs quivering beneath Sam's hands as he choked on his own blood.....

 

“Sam,” Dean's whisper yanked Sam out of his dark musings. “Hey. Hey, stay with me.” Dean's hands held Sam's face close to his own, hot breath skittering over Sam's lips. “Right here, Sammy. We're right here.”

 

Swallowing reflexively, Sam nodded and kissed him shyly. “Sorry,” he said.

 

“No. Don't be.” Dean slid his hands higher, tangling in Sam's hair again, and kissed him fully this time, teasing Sam's mouth open again.

 

Sam was hesitant though, sluggish in his movements. The desperate passion from before was gone. Dean couldn't blame him; Sam had probably gone somewhere dark, the way he had been whimpering. There were noises of  _want_  and  _need,_ and then there were the noises that woke Dean in the middle of the night. Dean knew the difference and he was adapting to the changes in his brother's demeanor.

 

They kissed for a while, but Dean made sure to turn so that Sam was off his lap, both men propped up on their sides. He kept it slow and steady; kisses easy and unhurried. Sam was timid, but he never pulled away, and when they finally broke away from one another, Dean could just see the pleasant blush tinting Sam's skin.

 

He smiled at his brother, and Sam smiled back.

 

This was good.

 

* * *

 

Sam was getting better. He wasn't the man he had been before Hell, but he was definitely acclimating. Sometimes he withdrew into his own thoughts, lost in daydreams for hours at a time. He would always come back from them a little less enthusiastic about his surroundings, or a tad jumpy about noises and movements – little Hell-shaped cracks in an otherwise flawless exterior.

 

For the most part, though, Sam kept himself together. He found a way to reconcile the reality of his past with the reality of his future.

 

He found comfort in books, helping Bobby research for other hunters who called looking for solutions to their hunts. Dean put himself to work in the junkyard, earning their keep at Bobby's house. Though he toyed with the idea of him and Sam hitting the road again, Dean would remind himself of the incident out by the woods and knew it was better they take a break; so, he puttered underneath car hoods while Sam devoured page after page of arcane knowledge.

 

The best part was that Sam had developed his geekiness even further than it had been before. Now, technology bothered him: computers and televisions left him frustrated and fussy. Books, however – especially the older ones in languages that weren't even known by most scholars – those he was more than happy to sit with for hours and hours. Hell, for all Dean knew, the information in the texts might not have been so arcane from Sam's point of view.

 

They fell into a pattern. Every morning Dean and Sam would wake up, warm from each other's body heat, and make their way downstairs – sometimes Dean would ask for five more minutes... and Sam would let him have it. One time, he surprised Dean by coming back up with a cup of coffee just for him;  _I used to bring you this, right?_

 

They spent the afternoon and early evening keeping themselves busy, helping Bobby with this and that. Sam was always the one to help with anything on a high shelf – a fact that never failed to make him smirk at Dean. Sam might not have been the man he was before, but he definitely kept the snot-nosed-little-brother part.

 

For the most part, Sam helped where he was needed and he spoke when he was spoken to. Sometimes he told Dean small snippets of thought, memories from darker places or memories that he had rediscovered from before. There were times where, out by the car or shaving side by side in the mornings, Sam would lean over and press a kiss to Dean's temple – just a quick, little kiss, and maybe a soft caress of his hand on Dean's hip. Just enough to warm Dean's skin. Then, sometimes, after a long day where little sounds made him paranoid and the wrong words could mean panic attacks, he would lean into Dean's solid weight and, without a word between them, Dean would know exactly what to say to remind Sam that he was here, with him, alive and well and not  _there_. Not anymore.

 

Sam loved to be out in the junkyard, too, when Dean was working on the Impala. He was always wary of the open space – agoraphobia taking hold of him when Dean or Bobby left him outside alone – but so long as Dean was there, brushing gently against his arm in passing or keeping up a running dialogue, Sam was more than content to sit and watch him work. Especially when it involved their girl. Sam was fascinated with her, always wanting to touch and look. There were even times where Dean left Sam outside, sitting next to the car, while he went in to get a drink. Sam never panicked around their car. Something about her kept him grounded and comfortable. He remembered so much more than Dean did about that car – all the little things they had shared in small whispers and cracking giggles, soft punches to each others' arms, in the backseat of their one-room home.

 

Sam  _was_ getting better.

 

There were times where Dean would come into the house, late at night and sweaty, covered in grease, to find Sam asleep at Bobby's desk. It always sent a thrill of panic racing up his spine to see Sam passed out like that. His mind fed him ideas where Death went back on their agreement, or Lucifer got the better of them after all, but then he would see Sam's ribs moving and his eyelashes fluttering along his cheekbones, and Dean would sigh in relief.

 

Sometimes he would leave Sam there while he went to wipe himself down at the kitchen sink. Other times, he would coax Sam into getting vertical and up the stairs to their bedroom, where the big oaf would collapse onto the mattress. Dean would shower and come back to a barely-conscious brother who smiled at him, dimples and all, and told him thank you. Every time, no matter what Dean did or in what order, it always ended with Sam smiling up at him from the bed, reaching out for Dean to join him, and saying thank you.

 

Dean couldn't have told you what the hell he was being thanked for.

 

* * *

 

_He crawls._

 

_Their nails sink into the flesh of his back, his thighs, his shoulders – every muscle shredded by their maliciousness. He coughs, blood spackling the harsh terrain. The smell of sulfur, bile and feces, ozone and death, the distinct scent of burning flesh and decaying soul – it makes his senses burn, his eyes water._

 

_He crawls._

 

_Their claws rake into him, Their words taunt. They are laughing at him, high-pitched and mean._ Failure, freak _, They call, mocking him with Their chittering. They prod at wounds that never heal._

 

_He crawls._

 

_The rocks cut into his blistered hands, scrape through the mangled skin of his knees and legs. His flesh bubbles along his limbs. He can smell the singed pieces of his hair as they disintegrate around him; a halo of decay._

 

_He doesn't know why, but he crawls._

 

_Even as They tear into the very essence of himself, he crawls. They pull away his courage, and They manipulate his pride – he always was a wretched little thing, thinking he was better than his own family. What a horrid creature. How can he stand to live with himself? What a monster he's become._

 

_They take away his confidence, They shred his hope into slivers, and he is left to sob as his soul cringes in agony, trying desperately to escape the exaggerated truths of all his misdeeds. It burns on the outside but it's hell inside, his own guilt eroding more of himself than the acid that laces Their tongues._

 

_Yet, he crawls._

 

_He doesn't know why, but he crawls._

 

_It isn't as if he can escape. Any semblance of hope he had once has all but turned to dust and blown away. They used to be able to tease a little piece of it out of him sometimes with false promises or seemingly mistaken slips of the tongue... but it was always just to build him up for the letdown. And in Hell, they did a damn good job of that letdown._

 

_He crawls, and he crawls, and he just... keeps.... going._

 

_Because somewhere – somewhere in the recesses of his memory, there is... someone. Someone who remembers the best of him, even when he doesn't himself; someone who always came back, even when he didn't have the faith enough to trust himself; someone who loves him and who he's pretty sure he loves just as much._

 

_He crawls because that person is still there, and that person still tells him to keep going. There's no hope left in him, but the echo of it lingers._

 

Fool!  _They cry, cackling maddeningly around him. The din of their laughter rings in his ears, making his eardrums ache with the reverberation._ Deserter. Villain. Monster.

 

No _, he whines without voice._ No, I'm not.  _He remembers how it felt to be there, to know that person hadn't left, wouldn't leave, was there until the very end, was there when the horizon went vertical..._

 

_But They know what to say and how to say it. They know how to twist and prod and pull and scar. They rend the echoes of such cherished faith, and fill its void with misbegotten half-truths, and even baser full-truths. The near intangible memories burn through his chest, through the parts of him that reside in his chest but not in any physical sense, and he cries against the chalky floor of the caldera._

 

_The dust burns his sinuses, coats his throat in the deathly grit of decayed matter. He chokes and gags as he feels the sharp needling of it down his throat and into the delicate passages of his respiratory system. Like cracked fiberglass, the chalky, rotten filth catches in the tissue of his lungs and rips with all the fury that They have when They rip at his skin._

 

“Sam,”  _They mock him._ Monster. Evil. Bastard child never belonged to that family! They were surrogates at best!

 

No _, he cries harder, blood making his throat thick. He can feel it moving within his ribs, can feel the porous tissue collapsing._ No, not true.

 

“Sam. _”_

 

Freak,  _They continue._ Inhuman. Deserter. Betrayer.

 

_He keeps crawling. He has to keep crawling_.

 

“Sam!”

_He is in ruins, dragging long strings of tissue and flesh behind him along the jagged rocks, but he crawls._

 

“Sam!”

 

With a strangled cry, Sam catapulted upward. The sound was little more than a sob, but it actually moved in the air around him. He had made a soundwave. The fact registered vaguely in his mind; it was something worth noting, but he couldn't quite think of why. He was too busy trying to breathe.

 

“Sammy,” Dean's voice filled his ears from behind him, a soft, tentative hand brushing against his shoulder. He couldn't help but flinch in response. “Hey... talk to me. You're okay. You're safe.”

 

Sam gasped again, pulling a long, deep breath that made his ribs expand impossibly wide: no dust, no burn, no collapsing tissue. He could breathe. More importantly, he could breathe without the pungent scent of decay and rot and filth and sulfur right there beneath his nose. The air here was clean, albeit a bit musty...  _like a library_ , Sam thought, almost smiling but not quite able to make the physical effort.

 

Dean was still touching him, finger tips ghosting over his skin. It made gooseflesh prickle on his arms, hair standing on end. The prickling sensation sent him back to there again, with Them and Their hurtful words and memories and you wretched, disgusting, horrible, mutated piece of –

 

“Hey,” Dean said again, this time giving his shoulder a little push. Sam wasn't responding that well tonight. Usually he snapped out of things within a few minutes, turning around and burying himself against Dean's side for comfort and reassurance; but this time... this was different. “Hey, Sammy. What is it? Come on, man. It's Bobby's house. Me. Dean. I'm right here, okay? You're safe.”

 

Without thinking, Dean pulled a little at Sam's shoulder, trying to get his brother to roll back over toward him. Sleep was still making his thoughts hazy, and had he been awake he would have known better, but Sam had been doing really well recently. In fact, Dean and Bobby had actually talked about the two of them moving out into a little place down the road. It was going on two months that Sam had been back and he was doing so much better, he could be trusted on his own most of the time. And God knew, with the blooming affection Sam was starting to express, Dean felt it best to not be right under the nose of their surrogate-father...

 

More out of reflex than any real cognizance, Sam flinched away from his brother's touch. Dean watched as Sam's eyes looked around the room, wide and fearful, catching and reflecting the dim moonlight from outside their window. Every few seconds his breath would catch in his chest, a hiccup of fear or sorrow working through his ribs, and he would turn his head the other way as if to avoid some oncoming blow.

 

Sitting up fully and crawling closer to the heap of limbs that made up his brother, Dean moved so that he was in front of Sam, forcing him to meet his gaze. As they made eye contact, Sam's breathing just sped up further, near hyperventilating he was so frightened.

 

“Hey. Sam, come on. What's--”

 

Oh shit, Sam really was hyperventilating. Like, he couldn't catch a breath for longer than a second before his lungs were rushing the air back out and then in. Dean could hear it rattling in his chest, could feel the way Sam made the mattress shake with his panic-induced tremors. Christ, his brother was having a full-blown panic attack now.

 

Worse yet, Dean couldn't seem to reach him. Sam was looking at him, seeing him, but was still terrified of whatever he was seeing around them. When he tried to smile, tried to reassure Sam that he was safe, Sam's eyes just widened even further, feverishly bright and shining in the darkness of their bedroom. He had to fix this.

 

“Okay,” said Dean, hit with a crazy-desperate idea, “Okay, Sammy. It's okay. We got this. You gotta trust me, okay? Okay. Yeah, it's gonna be okay.”

 

Maybe if he said it enough it would be true.

 

He reached out, taking both of Sam's wrists in his hands, and pulled gently. Surprisingly willful, Sam stumbled up onto unsteady feet and followed his brother. He was still shaky and barely able to draw breath, so Dean wrapped an arm up under Sam's shoulder to support him as they made their way out into the hallway and down the stairs.

 

Getting to the kitchen was an ordeal, and Sam was losing it, getting weaker by the minute; his gasping didn't slow as they descended the stairs, and he started to giggle – softly at first, but growing louder as they went. It was weirdly detached and broken because of his abnormal breath, and it made Dean's skin crawl.

 

Dean half-guided, half-dragged his brother to the kitchen door, hoping and praying this would work and that he hadn't just pulled Sam out of bed for nothing. He was pretty sure one of Sam's toenails had ripped against the rug, he had yelped so keenly.

 

“See, Sam? Look, come on, Sammy, just look.” He had to physically grab Sam's chin and point his head up – but it worked. He had Sam's attention.

 

The Impala had been his last hope. Sam seemed to calm so much more easily around it, and Dean was starting to get the idea that whatever happened to Sam in Hell, the Impala had been absent for all the tortures. It was Sam's little totem, his reminder of what was real.

 

Sam still had to lean against Dean, unsure of whether or not his feet were attached to his legs. There was a severe disconnect between his brain and the rest of his body, and yet he was acutely aware of the fact that his lungs were not cooperating and that Dean's heat was pressing into his side like an iron... and it was not completely unpleasant.

 

Oh. And there was the Impala.

 

Down the whole flight of stairs, past the books and artifacts, past the kitchen counters and their familiar undone dishes... all of it had been juxtaposed with the last dregs of his nightmares, the vile memories of  _There_. He had looked at Dean and seen his brother, but he could still feel the way They had twisted his image and used it against himself. It had hurt so much to hear Their taunts in his voice, to feel Their claws but see his hands.

 

Now it all seemed so... unimportant. It all paled in comparison to what he had right now, standing with his brother and the solid rock of their lives. This was what was important. The giggles that had started in his chest continued, bubbling up without his consent. He could feel his lungs flutter their way through each breath he took, choking each bit of laughter out of themselves. It was dissipating, though, he thought. He felt a little less... hysteric, and he felt like air was a much more accessible substance. Especially when he was looking right at the car, right at the very thing he never thought he would see again since tipping over into the horizon and falling forever.

 

He was only slightly aware of the whimper he made, needful and helpless, as he tried to step out into the yard. He wanted to be next to her, with her, with Dean there, too, but his feet stumbled and he felt himself lose his balance on the first step. He would fall... but Dean was still there, a heavy and solid warmth beside him.

 

Bobby had an old porch swing, in need of a good paint job but sturdy enough, and Dean guided his brother to it. It offered them a clear view of the car, without having to stand outside all night. By the time Dean got them both seated and situated, Sam's breathing was already dramatically different. It was still much faster than it should have been, but it was more like he had just been running for a long time and less the panic-induced gasps from early.

 

The crickets were loud outside, chirping rapidly in the humid air. Dean stretched out, working one arm over the back of the chair, and letting his heels rest on the floorboards of the porch, softly moving the swing back and forth. He was comfortable and Sam was calming, focused so intently on the Impala.

 

“You okay there, Knight Rider?” Dean joked, reaching out to push Sam's hair back from his face.

 

Sam didn't flinch away, but nodded absently instead. He even sort of smiled, like the teasing had registered somewhere in his mind but he was just too distracted to really give it his full attention.

 

It made Dean smile anyway, and he gave him a soft squeeze around his shoulders. “Good.”

 

After a few minutes, in which they sat in companionable silence, Sam leaned into him, resting his head against Dean's shoulder. Dean wasn't sure how to react immediately, but when Sam turned his nose into the crook of Dean's neck, warm breath ghosting over his damp skin, Dean was happy to curl his arm around Sam's shoulders, pulling him closer.

 

Their lips met, soft and open. Sam shifted a little, pressing tight against his brother's side, and reached up to cup Dean's jaw, coaxing him into a deeper kiss. It was still tame, no heat behind the action, but Dean savored that feeling of  _Sam, his Sam._ Dean worked his fingers slowly over the exposed skin of Sam's shoulder, pressing the flat of his palm against his chest in a gentle touch.

 

Resting his forehead against Sam's, Dean smiled as they bumped noses. Sam pulled back, stealing one last, chaste kiss, and resumed his original spot against Dean's side. Even though it was warm and humid, the damp of the air clung to their skin and soaked through their shirts. They would have to go back inside, or else catch a chill.   
  
Sam's ribs expanded against Dean's as he took a deep,  _deep_  breath and sighed it out. He was calm now, content against Dean's side, watching the moon's light reflect opaquely off the windows of the Impala.

   
“I never really forgot you,” whispered Sam, barely audible over the crickets and cicadas.

 

Turning his head against Sam's, Dean pressed his nose into the soft curls of his hair. “Yeah?”

 

Sam nodded, fingers curling tight around Dean's knee. “Even after... even after all that time, I still remembered you. Just... you. What you meant. You kept me holding onto something. I don't know.” He finished flippantly, fingers twiddling against Dean's knee.

 

He had to laugh at his brother's inarticulate statement, despite its gravity.

 

After a moment, Sam added, “You  _still_  keep me holding on.”

 

It made Dean's voice catch in his throat, choked off with feeling. He wanted to tell Sam that he felt the same way, that everything Sam endured and overcame helped to motivate Dean to be a better man, himself. He wanted to live up to his little brother's example – what a laugh that was.

 

Zachariah had been right: they  _were_  unbelievably co-dependent.

 

Dean didn't say anything, though. He pressed another kiss to Sam's temple and resumed the tapping of his foot that kept the swing moving for them. Sam didn't seem to expect an answer, anyway, and after a while, his head drooped heavily against Dean's shoulder. He could feel the start of a drool spot worm its way through the cotton of his shirt, and yet, he couldn't be bothered to care.

 

It was all so bittersweet, really. Dean was here, with Sam pressed against him like he belonged there (and he did), happily asleep and drooling, and everything seemed so normal. It was like all of the mess from the past... well, who knew how long; they had been messed up for a while now. However, at 4:00am, with a glimmer of warmth peaking through the clumps of pine trees on the edge of the property, Dean felt calm and collected and almost happy.

 

In the morning, Sam would wake up and smile at him, probably get up to make coffee and then bring it back to him in bed. Maybe they'd make out for an hour before bothering to greet Bobby.

 

What hurt was that Dean knew there was just as good a chance that Sam would startle awake from another nightmare, maybe have another panic attack where he wouldn't be able catch his breath, or he could just wake up in the wrong parts of his mind and stay withdrawn for the rest of the day, lost in paranoia and dark memories. There was no telling what could happened, and it left Dean feeling helpless.

 

He waited until the sky was turning pink above the trees before he roused Sam into standing up and heading back inside. They should at least get back in bed before the sun made itself known.

 

Sam mumbled sleepily, rubbing at his face in a childish fashion. Since coming back, he had adopted some of those old kiddy habits that he used to have back before he realized what a dark place the world really was, before he really knew what Dad did for a living.

 

Arms wrapped around one another, Dean and Sam made their way inside the house. Sam, regardless of his taller stature, managed to slump himself against Dean's frame and press his lips lazily into the crook of Dean's neck, breath warm against his skin. He mumbled unintelligibly all the way up the stairs.

 

Despite the mess that his brother was sometimes, Dean couldn't begrudge his situation. As he stared down at his brother, now sprawled on the mattress, Dean was thankful for these moments, for the breakfast kisses and coffee, for the shared jokes across the hood of the Impala, for the whispered acknowledgments and the ones that needn't be voiced. He had his brother, and that was all that mattered really.

 

Soft sunlight filtered through the threadbare curtain of their window, coating Sam's skin honey and making his hazel eyes smolder. A shy smile worked at the dimples in Sam's cheeks as he reached his hand up to Dean, fingers dancing in the dust motes, beckoning him to get under the covers, too.

 

“Thank you,” Dean said, mimicking the unspoken words on Sam's lips.   
  
 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to brosedshield for taking a look over this and giving me some very helpful pointers! ♥


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